And not that blue-eyed man they’d left back in the dining room. Something about him was unsettling to say the least. She needed someone whose mere existence made her insides brighter. A look from him would be like dialing up her lantern flame, as hers would do the same for him. Shakespeare put it so much better. That’s what she desired. Poetic magic.
This set her to musing about her parents’ meeting. In between doctoring patients’ emergencies, Mama had shared stories with Emma about growing up in a logging camp before going off to medical school, saying she relinquished her theater passion for medicine because it was “drama in its purist form.” She’d met Emma’s father at Franklin Medical College in Illinois. After she’d purchased the last textbook for one of their courses, Papa had begged to share it so he could pass. His fate was in her hands, literally.
It struck Emma that if her parents sent her to school, perhaps she’d meet a handsome kindred soul there. Maybe that was the family legacy. That made her realize how much more family history there was to know. As Ollie crept into her mind again, she sought a distraction, so she addressed her mother. “Why did Papa want to become a physician?”
“A wounded army medic ended up at his family’s house during the Black Hawk War. I suspect his eleven-year-old bandaging skills made him feel like a natural. It made him proud to see that man get better with his help.”
“But didn’t grandpa want Papa to help with the lumber business?”
“Well, his father permitted him to enroll in college in the hopes that would keep him off the front lines, at least during his studies. Medicine has kept your father out of the cross-fire.” She crinkled her nose.
Emma knew this was factual, but from countless dinner conversations, she’d heard medicine hadn’t kept Papa off the battlefield. She’d pieced together that it had something to do with his brother dying in the Indian Creek Massacre. “I never understood what happened to Uncle William.”
“That’s another reason your grandfather allowed Papa to pursue the path he did. He couldn’t stand to lose another son and hoped your father would settle for a quiet life away from the military.”
Emma peered into her mother’s eyes. “What happened, Mama?”
“You can never tell him I said anything. The only reason I know is I overheard the two of them one night after dinner.” She touched her daughter’s hand. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Her mother swallowed. “William was scalped and his body mutilated. Back then there was a panic of further Indian retaliation, so his entire family moved to Chicago. Your father has never gotten over seeing his brother’s corpse.”
Every blue moon or so, in the middle of the night, Emma heard Mama in the kitchen making Papa hot milk and then her soft lullaby putting him back to sleep. Now Emma realized what his nightmares consisted of. She wondered what her future husband’s demons might be. Surely all men had them.
“Don’t ever let any one thing rule your life. You can’t, not in this world.”
“How can one do that? As if all these Indian wars aren’t bad enough, now there’s the blasted Confederates leaving the Union.” Emma stared at the river, noticing the rhythm of the paddle wheel at the rear of the boat. Those strokes pushed them toward whatever their future held. Only hours away from their previous life, Emma yearned to go back. Was she too young to feel nostalgia?
“Mankind has been at war since Cain. All the more reason to keep a level head and heart.” Mama stepped closer to her daughter. “Be careful about being too quick to label villains and heroes, no matter how loud they proclaim themselves. Life is a complicated jumble of perspectives. Sometimes only the Lord holds the truth.”
What kind of sense did that make? Right now Ollie made quite the villain, especially since he’d invaded her thoughts again. Damn him. The two of them had one heck of a disagreement about the very thing her mother spoke of. According to Ollie, the Indian Creek Massacre was all a colossal misunderstanding. President Jackson had appointed less qualified Indian agents, whose blunders muddied white and red relations, when he’d taken office. American troops were warned of an ambush, after they ignored Black Hawk’s envoys who’d waved a white flag. Emma maintained this wasn’t the first time the Indians pretended to be peacemakers as a military tactic. Ollie said everyone pretends when it suits him, and sometimes it is the only option. When it came to her heart, it seemed he’d done a great deal of pretending.
Perusing her daughter’s face, Mama tapped Emma’s hand. “Enough somber talk for tonight. Let’s try our luck at the card table.”
Her brow crinkled. Emma was so used to not having any money to spare. Their only poker games had been after dinner with Papa and her brothers.
Mama grinned mischievously, pulling up her shawl around her shoulders. “Come on. Just one game.”
“Just one?” Emma smiled, following her mother’s lead to one of the tables.
The air reeked of tobacco and whiskey.
Mama turned back and winked.
Someone diddled an upbeat, but off-key ditty on the piano. Emma looked forward to singing along to her mother’s infectious playing on her new grand piano. Papa had written of the special welcome home present, shiny and needing to be broken in. The old upright at the former house stayed behind for whoever claimed it after they’d moved out.
As Mama threw down a modest few bills in the center of the table, indicating it was for her and Emma, a couple of the seated men jeered. All of them studied the two women as they sat. The last seat was taken by the stranger she’d seen in the dining room. After glimpsing the shape of Emma’s bosom, he shot her a grin. Stroking his beard, he pulled money from his brocade vest. She watched his hand, ringed with several glittering stones, adding his contribution to the pot. The man rubbed the gemmed stickpin on his chest, either for luck, or to guide Emma’s attention to it.
“Quite the treat, the two of you joining us tonight,” the stranger said in a smooth, deep voice. “How about gracing me with some of that lady luck?” He winked at Emma and patted his lap.
“My lady luck is right fine where it is, sir,” Emma replied as the dealer flung the cards around the table.
While the game progressed, several of the men loosened their collars. One kept fiddling with his watch chain. Emma’s breath shallowed when Mama tossed another bill into the winnings. The stranger and one other player upped their bets. Four men folded.
Stroking his pin again, the blue-eyed man smirked. “What’ve you got, darling?” He leaned back in his chair and placed a hand on her thigh.
Laying down two pairs, Emma bit her lip, wondering what her mother had.
“Not bad, little lady,” one of the players said.
Mama fanned her hand on the felt and took a swig of whiskey from her neighbor’s glass. Too stunned to notice, he slammed his cards down and said, “Dammit all to hell. A royal flush?” He looked to the remaining player. “What’ll it be, Mack?”
The stranger lifted his hat to rake his fingers through sandy hair. His glassy eyes glowered as he revealed his straight flush. “We’ve all been had.”
“This is all fair and square, I assure you,” Mama said, glancing back at her daughter before gathering her winnings and tucking the stash into her bosom.
“Not so fast,” one of the men said. “Don’t you want to show us a little more of that lady luck?”
Not only had Mama promised to play only one game, but she was the kind of woman who knew when to quit while she was ahead. So what if they assumed mother and daughter were card sharks? Emma decided that was kind of a thrill, the adrenaline still thrumming through her veins.
“Thank you, gentlemen, but we’ll be calling it a night,” Mama said, tipping her hat and rising from her chair.
Emma’s mouth turned downward. She’d half-hoped the two of them could prove they could win more than just one round.
On the deck, Emma veered to the railing to admire the evening sky while basking in her lifted spirits; but her mother tugged
her by the hand. “Let’s retire,” she said with a trace of unease.
“Oh, ladies,” that deep and smooth voice said.
Mama cinched her daughter’s hand, and the two hurried their step.
The boots behind them sped up. “Surely the night is still young,” he said, leaping into their path. Those blue eyes pierced the dim light.
Emma thought of the pistol beneath her skirt. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“Neither do I, darling.”
“What do you want?” Mama asked.
“One more game is all.” He encroached into Mama’s personal space. “Or, if not, let me buy you a drink. We can toast your good fortune.” A threat hid somewhere in his tone.
Leaning her face closer to the man’s, Mama scowled. “When a lady says no, it means no. Now, if you will excuse us.”
Emma had her fingers on her skirt, her boot on tiptoe, ready to kick the pistol into her hand. Her heart thundered so loudly she was deaf to any other sound. Each second seemed endless.
The man glimpsed Emma’s stance and took a step back. “Well, if that’s the way you want it.”
Emma planted both feet on the deck and sighed, realizing she’d really been ready to shoot a man dead. What then? Would they have had to stow the body somewhere? Would she have been apprehended? The sight of blood, and even death, was commonplace for her, but not like this. In that moment, her entire destiny almost skipped down a road of no return.
“Good night, sir,” Emma said. She grabbed her mother’s hand and they wandered back to their room.
Listening for the direction of the tread of boots, Emma heard the stranger’s steps fade into the distance. Mama squeezed her hand before they opened their door and locked themselves safely in their quarters. Neither of them spoke as they unlaced their boots and stripped down to their nightclothes.
The next morning Emma woke her mother, since the bustling commotion of disembarking was well underway. They hurried along the plank with their suitcases, anxious to meet Riley on dry land.
“Good morning,” that familiar voice said behind them.
Emma didn’t need to turn to know it was the blue-eyed gambler from the night before. “Good morning,” she said, with half a mind to ignore him. But today was a new day and she bet this was the last time she’d have to endure him.
A blank stare on her face, Mama did enough of the ignoring for both of them. Her arm cradled the potted jasmine. She gazed affectionately at the sweet-smelling flowers.
“This your final stop?” He leaned his head between mother and daughter.
“That’s our business,” Emma said, craning her neck for any sign of Riley.
“Me, I’m off to Canada. Folks say there might be gold up there.”
Bitter cold and death waited that far north. Perhaps he’d meet such an end. Emma then felt guilty for such a wish and wanted him to rub his lucky gem to cancel her ill will. Yet he wasn’t wearing the pin as far as she could tell. Maybe he reserved it for game time.
“Good luck to you, sir.” Mama’s voice strained to contain her irritation.
Once they’d stepped off the plank, Emma shaded her eyes, scanning the row of carriages. She waved to her brother, springing on her toes.
“You as well, my good lady.” The stranger tipped his hat. “One more thing.”
Emma cast a sidelong glance in his direction to watch her mother handle what she hoped were the final moments with this royal pest. Maybe they should’ve given him the winnings last night. If she’d only known that wasn’t the last of him. It seemed financial gain came with a price, one they paid with each passing moment.
The gambler smirked.
Mama looked to Riley, whose approach didn’t come fast enough.
After setting his luggage down, the blue-eyed man outstretched his hand. “No hard feelings?”
Mama’s attention was on her children throwing their arms around each other, but she engaged in the handshake. “No hard feelings.” She quickly retracted her hand, rubbing her palm. “What the—?”
“You all right?” Emma asked, rushing to prop her mother up by the arm. The pot of jasmine leaned from her grasp.
The gambler seized the sides of Emma’s face and planted a wet kiss on her lips. Her blood froze while she tried to wriggle free. His facial hair scratched her face. Anger filled her heart. She used to wish Ollie had been her first kiss, but now this brute had claimed that honor for himself.
When he pulled away, the man licked his chops like a dog. “And, you, darling. Thanks for obliging me last night.”
Passersby cast scowls Emma’s way. She felt her face flush. How dare he make such an accusation?
Before Emma could wallow in any more of her feelings, she saw her mother swaying.
Riley glowered at his sister, searching for the gambler who had already blended into the crowd. “Who was that?”
“It’s not what you think,” Emma said with a lump in her throat.
Mama moaned.
Emma and her brother helped their mother to stand.
Once Riley inspected Mama’s hand, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it.
Emma had only spotted a dot of blood, but understood the significance as he carried their mother to the carriage. She snatched their suitcases and scurried after them.
Mama’s limbs convulsed, her eyes scrunched shut. The jasmine tumbled to the ground, the pot cracking. Her desperate sucking for breath sounded almost like a cough. As Mama went lifeless in Riley’s arms, Emma gasped.
Dropping the bags, Emma hurried to her mother, looking to Riley to perform some miracle. His entire face drooped, the corners of his mouth downturned.
“What can we do?” Emma asked.
Riley’s eyes glistened as he shook his head.
Mama’s tongue lolled, her entire body going rigid.
“Damn him,” Emma said, wondering what kind of poison had been on the pin—snake venom, or any number of deadly plants. Where had the man gotten such a substance? She felt Riley’s unasked question about who the murderer had been, but knew it didn’t matter. The gambler could be anywhere by now. And even if he’d been standing right there, all he had to do was discard the stickpin for there to be no proof.
Emma sobbed as Riley lifted their unresponsive mother into the carriage. Back at the house, she’d have to relive all this when recounting it for Papa, who’d no doubt disbelieve his wife had died because of a no good gambler who happened to have gotten his hands on some tribal arrow poison. The Indians may as well have killed Mama.
While the horses set the carriage wheels in motion, Emma spied the abandoned jasmine, its roots naked and helpless. The other disembarking passengers trampled the piece of Mama’s futile good luck charm.
However, the more prominent notion springing to Emma’s mind was that she should have shot that bastard when she’d had the chance.
Summer 1988
Mark spent the first night in the house with his father. Mom was back at the old home with Tausha, boxing up their belongings and making see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya arrangements.
“Why’re we sleeping in the dining room?” Mark asked.
“Because we’ve at least three exits, my boy.” He slapped his son’s back.
Three exits for what? It’s three ways for someone to get in!
Dad busied himself with blowing up the inflatable mattress. Mark kneeled beside the work in progress, flattening the unfurling plastic mass. Their golden retriever, Salem, lazed in the corner. The air in the room grew thick. Mark wished for a night light, but reminded himself he wasn’t a kid anymore. Grow some balls, he told himself.
Soon their indoor camp was ready, the sheets and pillows offering some comforts. A whiff of the detergent smell carried over from their previous house. That sensation cocooned Mark. One day the sights and sounds of this place would become familiar. He’d just need to ride the wave of unfamiliarity for the time being.
Father and son assumed the sleeping position. The li
ghts doused and the moon beamed through the trees, filtering into the room through the translucent window sheers.
It wasn’t long before Mark drifted into a deep sleep.
Blackness verged on bursting into a full spectrum of color when he jolted awake to a clank and whirring in the distance. The moment he considered whether or not the elevator was operating on its own, all fell silent. So much so, his ears felt momentarily plugged with cotton. He watched a plume of his breath. But it’s summer! The door to the living room was a pitchblack opening. Something ticked, like claws on the floor.
The sound grew louder.
Dad’s head burrowed under a pillow, smashed under his arm.
The clickety-clack of the claws echoed.
Mark stared into the doorway’s void. There was an enormous shadow, or was that his imagination? Had a piece of his hair fallen into his line of sight?
Wanting to yank the pillow over his head, he didn’t recall ever being this rigid, or a time when blinking seemed impossible.
Claws clacked closer, seeming to cease at the threshold. Breath heaved, like a bull’s. A pair of monstrous hands clutched the doorjamb.
Mark’s heart hammered, about to burst.
Dead to the world, Dad still slept.
Mark tore his attention from the now deafening silence, shoving the body lying next to him. It wasn’t deliverance he sought, but a witness.
Dad squinted into the darkness, sitting up. “What?”
“I heard something out there.” Mark’s voice cracked. Sweat dripped down his back as he pointed to the doorway.
“This house is old, son.” He rubbed his eyes. “Go back to sleep.”
“But—” The words wouldn’t come.
The dog, whimpering, snuck into the room.
“It’s just Salem.” Dad flopped back onto the mattress, repositioning the pillow.
Yeah, but why had she left? Where exactly had she gone?
Mark patted the bed to see if man’s best friend would snuggle up beside him.
Fountain Dead Page 3